


my heart is thrilled by the still of your hand

by hopeless_hope



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (they definitely are), Fluff, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whump, fellas is it gay if you let your bard give you a bath and serenade you while you kill monsters?, geralt can have some hugs and soft touch. as a treat., it definitely is, two tender boyfriends who don't realize they're dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-19 13:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22745407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeless_hope/pseuds/hopeless_hope
Summary: The thing is, Geralt had never been much of a tactile person. Neediness had no room in his line of work, and the thought of being dependent on anyone, even in the smallest of ways, made Geralt sneer.But then Jaskier came along.orA progression of Geralt and Jaskier's relationship, as told through small touches and gestures.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 1027





	my heart is thrilled by the still of your hand

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "No Plan" by Hozier.
> 
> I have so many marvel fics I need to be writing, but this pair just won't leave me alone, so enjoy!

The thing is, Geralt had never been much of a tactile person. Neediness had no room in his line of work, and the thought of being dependent on anyone, even in the smallest of ways, made Geralt sneer.

But then Jaskier came along.

Jaskier was never able to keep his hands to himself, a fact he was rather notorious for. And even Geralt’s “don’t fuck with me” demeanor wasn’t enough to deter him.

The first time Jaskier took notice of Geralt’s affinity for touch was one of the colder winter nights, when they couldn’t find an inn to stay at. Geralt had started a fire and they’d huddled close, trying to steal as much warmth as it had to offer. Jaskier, as charmingly greedy as ever, couldn’t stop himself from pressing his side against Geralt’s, relishing the extra warmth that came with it.

He expected to be pushed away, punched in the gut for his efforts. Instead, Geralt merely looked at him with an arched brow, and Jaskier shrugged as if to say, “What? I’m cold.” Geralt simply hummed in response, a low sound in the back of his throat, before poking the fire with a stick.

He didn’t once make any move to escape his proximity to Jaskier.

After that, Jaskier started testing his boundaries.

Most nights when they were in town, Jaskier would find himself singing in the nearest tavern, trying to rack up coin while Geralt sat brooding in the corner with a stein of ale, unable to keep himself from listening to the bard’s admittedly captivating voice.

He never joined in on the clapping when it was over, but Jaskier never minded. Instead, he marches up to Geralt, as confident as he was that first day, and slings an arm around the witcher’s shoulders.

“Geralt! No applause to spare for your favorite bard?” Jaskier asks jovially.

“You’re my only bard,” Geralt says exasperatedly, trying to ignore the fact that he just referred to Jaskier as his. “Thankfully. And your retelling of the kikimora slaying was ridiculously embellished.”

“Ah, but boring stories don’t sell,” Jaskier tells him happily, reaching for Geralt’s ale and taking a swig, dodging Geralt’s hand as he swats at him. Jaskier hastily sets it back in front of him, ignoring Geralt’s glower as he continues. “And you killed that last kikimora way too quickly. There wasn’t much to tell.”

“Sounds like you managed just fine,” Geralt says wryly, and Jaskier jingles the coins in his pocket.

“That I did,” Jaskier agrees. For a moment, they’re silent, and Jaskier registers with surprise that Geralt hasn’t pulled away from him yet.

Before Geralt’s quota on touch for the day can be spent, Jaskier makes a show of wrinkling his nose and pulling away, saying, “You, my pretty-faced friend, could use a bath.”

Geralt cocks his head at him. “‘Pretty-faced friend’?”

Completely shameless, Jaskier simply rolls his eyes. “There’s no point in modesty, Geralt,” Jaskier chides. “Surely you’ve caught a glimpse of that gorgeous mug of yours in the mirror, yeah? Rather easy on the eyes, I must confess.” He pats Geralt’s cheek twice before standing up. “Come on, then, I’m sure you’re going to have us up at the crack of dawn, and I’d like to get _some_ sleep tonight.”

Jaskier makes his way towards their room, leaving a baffled Geralt in his wake.

* * *

The next occasion happens a couple towns later, when Geralt bursts into their room completely covered in guts. Jaskier looks up from where he’s sitting on his bed, idly strumming a few chords on his lute, and grimaces at the sight.

“I take it you killed it, then?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt just grunts. “Right, bath. Shall I run it for you?”

Jaskier doesn’t even wait for Geralt’s response—not that he’s really expecting one; they’ve been through this routine far too many times before, and he knows exactly what to do. He simply sets his lute aside and goes to fill the bath with hot water as Geralt strips the mucky clothes from his body. They fall to the floor with a wet smack, and Jaskier wrinkles his nose.

“You couldn’t have chosen a _cleaner_ profession?” Jaskier grumbles, pinching the clothes between two fingers and holding them away from him. He quickly walks them out of the room and sends them to be cleaned before returning to Geralt, who’s lowered himself into the steaming water with a groan.

Jaskier picks up a bucket and fills it with water before dumping it over Geralt. The witcher wipes water from his eyes, clearing some of the gunk on his face in the process.

“Geralt, your hair is an absolute mess,” Jaskier tuts, running a hand through the strands that are clumped together. “A shame, really,” he sighs. “This is going to take forever to get out.”

“I’m not holding you hostage to wash my hair,” Geralt points out, reaching up to scrub at his hair, but Jaskier swats his hand away.

“No, no. You’ve done enough damage as it is. Allow me,” Jaskier insists, gently washing the mud and guts away, no longer fazed by the general grossness of it.

Geralt doesn’t protest. Instead, he simply sits back, scrubbing the rest of his body while Jaskier works through the strands, massaging his scalp. Geralt can’t help the groan that escapes him at the feeling, and Jaskier falters for a second.

 _Interesting_ , he thinks, continuing his ministrations.

Once Geralt is done cleaning the rest of his body, he completely relaxes, leaning into Jaskier’s touch, and the bard can’t help but marvel at how the powerful witcher turns into the equivalent of a contented cat at his touch.

For once, Jaskier doesn’t comment, not wanting to startle Geralt into brushing him off. This is the first time Jaskier’s been allowed this level of closeness, and he doesn’t want to ruin the fragile moment.

He swiftly finishes up with a final rinse before carefully squeezing the excess water from Geralt’s hair. “All done,” he announces quietly, and Geralt sighs, not wanting to leave the warmth of the water. Jaskier chuckles, running his hand through the witcher’s hair one last time before moving away. “Come on, old man, I’m tired.”

Geralt blinks up at him. “I’m not old,” he tells him, and Jaskier laughs.

“How many decades have you been alive?” he challenges, and when Geralt doesn’t answer, he gives him a pointed look. “Exactly. Old.”

Geralt steps out of the tub with a glare, but there’s no real heat to it. He quickly dries himself down and shrugs into the clean clothes Jaskier presents him with.

“We have a long day of traveling tomorrow,” Geralt warns him, filling the silence as they make their way to the beds. They’re not the most comfortable-looking beds Jaskier’s ever seen, but it’ll do.

“All the more time for me to compose sweet melodies about our adventures together,” Jaskier says cheerfully, peeling back the covers and climbing into his bed. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

All he gets in response is a quiet, “Hmmm,” and Jaskier smiles as he closes his eyes.

* * *

After that, something in their relationship seems to shift, but it’s far from a bad thing. Geralt continues to be his usual grumpy, often abrasive, self but Jaskier can’t help but notice how much more tolerant he is.

Ever since that night, Jaskier has experiemented, needlessly brushing Geralt’s arm as he walks by, offering to do his hair up for banquets, and clapping him on the back in greeting. He waits for the moment where it gets to be too much and Geralt backs away from him altogether, but the moment never comes.

Eventually, as was bound to happen, they run into trouble on the road. This time, it comes in the form of a harpy, which swiftly swoops down and grabs for Jaskier before he even knows what’s happening.

“Geralt!” he yells, wincing at the pain of talons digging into his shoulder, and Geralt doesn’t even hesitate before whipping out his sword and throwing it at the monstrous creature.

Jaskier closes his eyes at the sight of the sword flying towards him and curses when it lands near his head, straight through the harpy’s wing. The creature screeches loudly, a sound that Jaskier’s sure will still be ringing in his ears days from now, before reflexively letting the bard fall to the ground.

Jaskier yells loudly, curling in the air and squeezing his eyes shut as he braces for impact. He hits the ground, air rushing out of his lungs, and he wheezes desperately at the loss. It could have been much worse, though, and he spares a moment of thought to be thankful the harpy hadn’t had a chance to fly him any higher.

He lays there for a moment, stunned and probably bruised, and listens to the thwack of a sword and the resulting screech of the creature as Geralt fights to incapacitate it.

Jaskier closes his eyes for a second, trusting Geralt to take care of the creature, but quickly opens them again when he feels a rush of heat. He turns his head to see Geralt standing before the creature, which is writhing as it’s set aflame.

Jaskier’s eyes widen. _Geralt set it on fucking fire._

Geralt nimbly sheaths his sword again and turns away from the flames, eyes landing on Jaskier, who’s still a little dazed. Jaskier blinks, and by the time he opens his eyes again, Geralt is kneeling in front of him.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt asks him urgently, and Jaskier shakes his head. He lifts himself up onto his elbows, and Geralt places a steadying hand on his back.

“I’m quite alright,” Jaskier reassures him. “Just got the breath knocked out of me, is all.”

Geralt ignores him, placing a hand on Jaskier’s chin and lifting it up, scanning his face for any sign of pain. “Your shoulders?” Geralt presses, and Jaskier stretches them, hissing when he realizes that _yeah,_ the harpies talons were sharp.

“Oh.” Jaskier lets out a breath at the sharp sting.

Geralt’s brow crinkles in concern, and he gingerly moves Jaskier’s shirt aside to reveal long scratches on each of his shoulders.

“Stay,” Geralt commands before hopping up and taking some supplies out of Roaches saddlebag. “We need to clean these up. If we’re quick, we can make it into town by dark.”

Jaskier nods and sucks in a breath when Geralt takes out a cloth and dabs at the blood. “For a minute there, I thought I was a goner,” Jaskier admits, and Geralt pauses as he cleans the wounds, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle.

He pulls back and gives Jaskier an intense look as he says, “That wouldn’t have happened. I would not let it.” He says it with so much conviction that Jaskier has no choice but to believe him.

Geralt quickly dresses the wounds, thankful that even though the scratches are long, they’re not particularly deep. Once he’s done, he sets the supplies aside and slips Jaskier’s shirt back over his shoulders. His hands rest there, cupping Jaskier’s neck.

“You okay?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier smiles warmly.

“I really am fine. You worry too much,” Jaskier tells him lightly, but Geralt merely hums in the back of his throat.

To Jaskier’s surprise, the witcher searches his eyes intently, as if needing to be _absolutely sure_ of Jaskier’s continued good health, before allowing his head to drop to Jaskier’s shoulder, burying his face in the bard’s neck and inhaling deeply.

“Oh,” Jaskier says again, but this time it’s from surprise. He reflexively brings his hand up to cup that back of Geralt’s head, shocked yet pleased at his open display of affection. “Geralt, I promise I am well. You ensured it.”

After a moment, Geralt pulls back, but he doesn’t go far, face inches from Jaskier. The bard gives him a soft smile and cups his cheek, something pleased curling up in his chest when Geralt leans into the touch.

“Hey,” Jaskier murmurs, “come here.” He slowly tugs Geralt into him, giving the witcher plenty of time to back away, but Geralt simply searches his eyes before finding the confirmation he needs and pressing his lips to Jaskier’s.

Jaskier sighs, mouth opening slightly, and Geralt quickly takes advantage, deepening the kiss. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat as Jaskier tangles his hands into his hair. Geralt’s hands ghost along Jaskier’s side, as if not quite sure where to settle.

Eventually, Jaskier gently breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead against Geralt’s to catch his breath, feeling dizzy with the thrill of being this close to the witcher. He lets his hands wrap around the witcher’s waist, holding him tight, and Jaskier smiles when Geralt molds himself to him, completely pliant in his arms. Geralt hums happily, a sound not unlike a contented purr.

“See?” Jaskier murmurs. “I’m just fine.”

It’s with much reluctance that Geralt finally pulls away from his bard, and he gently lifts Jaskier up with him as he stands. Jaskier gingerly brushes the dirt from his clothes as Geralt packs the supplies back into Roach’s saddlebag.

“Jaskier,” he rasps, and the bard looks up from where he’s inspecting his lute, searching it for any injuries.

“Yes, Geralt?”

“Get on Roach,” Geralt tells him, holding her reins. Jaskier can’t hold back his look of surprise. Geralt never lets him ride Roach unless he physically can’t walk for himself.

“That’s not necessary,” he tells him, exasperated, because for whatever reason, Geralt can’t seem to get it through his thick skull that Jaskier is alright.

“I’d like you to,” Geralt says firmly, and Jaskier gives him an uncertain look.

“If you’re sure,” he says, walking closer, and Geralt nods.

“I’m sure,” he reiterates. 

Geralt takes his bag and secures it to Roach, who stomps impatiently, and Geralt shushes her gently. Then, he turns to Jaskier and links his hands together.

“Step on, I’ll give you a leg up.”

“Why thank you, Geralt, that is very kind of you,” Jaskier says graciously, stepping into Geralt’s hands and letting the witcher boost him up. Roach, thankfully, stays obediently still as Jaskier settles onto her back, and Geralt effortlessly swings onto her, sitting behind Jaskier.

“Is this alright?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier nods. _This is more than alright_ , he thinks to himself, enjoying the feel of Geralt pressed up behind him, and Geralt reaches around him to take the reins.

The witcher gives Roach two gentle kicks to spur her forward, and Jaskier relaxes back into Geralt’s hold, feeling utterly content.

He starts to hum a tune, already composing a melody of the day’s wild adventures. And wrapped up in Geralt’s arms as they travel, Jaskier feels blissfully still.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still working on getting a feel for their voices and gestures, so sorry if it feels off. It's hard to do romance since I'm ace and probably aro, but I love this pair, and story ideas for them just won't leave me alone, haha.
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated! And please come talk to me on tumblr @thewitcherstan! You can send me prompts or just scream with me about Henry Cavill in tight pants. ;)


End file.
